Wow. I come home, do less than when I was away, and still manage to not post. I'm horrible at this.
There's a lot to be said about good writers. They make our TV shows, our movies, our, well, entertainment. Of course, there's a lot to be said about bad writers too, but I'm just going to ignore them for a bit.
Often times I find myself watching a movie or show or playing a game, or whatever and I'm just awe struck. The lines that people come up with are just so damn good I don't know what to do or say. A moment that has absolutely nothing to do with the actor, and everything to do with the words coming out of their mouth. Sometimes we forget that it's not just the actor and their ability to look really good and say words at the same time. Behind that actor is a writer who knows that character just as well as, if not better than, the actor portraying them. Of course there's a lot of other people involved in this process too, but well, I'm ignoring them too.
Somebody knew Han Solo so well that his response to the words I love you was a simple "I know." Somebody sits up and writes the jokes for Psych and Community and everything else. Somebody who is really very witty.
And I hate that person. Well, sort of. I mostly love their talent. But my own fragile ego won't let me love them for it without hating them as well. I hate them for being so damn witty. I hate them for being so talented. I hate everything about them for being better than me. Of course, I don't really hate them, nor do I begrudge them their success. But god, I hate them.
And I don't really know if that's a problem or not. Constantly being bombarded by feelings of inadequacy isn't the best thing for someones mental well being. But oft times it has a kind of positive effect of making you try to be better. If only so you don't suck quite so much in comparison. I really can't say if my giant complex involving other people is a good thing or not. I really don't know if it makes me try any harder, or if it makes me never want to write again. It probably varies on the day. And today, well today, I really just don't want to suck quite so much.
Quote of the Day:
"The important work of moving the world forward does not wait to be done by perfect men."
- George Elliot
24.10.11
Word Vomit [14/90]
Words suck today.
No matter what I do they refuse to come out right. Admittedly, I haven't tried too much to force them out, but I don't particularly enjoy forcing writing. If it's forced, it's not real, if it's not real, what's the point?
I believe in genuine writing. I don't want to plan, don't want to think, I want to feel the words. I want to have an idea flow out of me as is. Raw and ugly as sin. Full of cliche's and fragments and things that won't make sense until the third revision. I want gaps and plot holes that need to be filled in later because I'm too busy thinking of what happens next to concentrate on what happens now. I want spelling errors because my brain is moving far too fast for my fingers to keep up. I want to close my eyes and see a scene, to feel it and smell it while my fingers try desperately to keep up. To make sure the moment is captured before the image is lost forever. That's what I want when I sit down to write. That's what I want out of creative writing.
That's when writing makes me the happiest. When I just sit down and let the words flow out of me. Of course, most of these words are garbage with rare moments of words flowing perfectly together. But rarely is something great on the first try. That guy with the lightbulb fucked up about a million times before he figured it out. And science is much more concrete than figuring out how to string a sentence together, so I figure I have some leeway here. Hell, I can't make a lightbulb either, so I really should have a lot of room to work in.
Sometimes I wish I was better at structuring my writing before I actually started it. Then I wouldn't have to stress as much about everything fitting together properly when everything is said and done. As is, I just kind of start, and then figure out if everything adds up as I go through. It can be a terrible way to work, especially when a distinct structure is expected of you. But now that I'm not officially in classes of any sort, I suppose whatever the hell I want to do works just fine.
Like me writing whatever comes to mind. Like I'm writing now. Like how I'm using the word like 700 times to explain something that really didn't even need to be mentioned. Like how I keep typing exactly what is running through my mind at the moment. Of course I miss a few thoughts, but you don't really need to know that when I typed that last sentence I thought about ketchup simply because it was something different than what I was typing at that moment.
I love stream of consciousness. You get to say strange things.
Cabbage.
Quote of the Day:
"I'm always fucking childish, you knew that when you met me."
- Childish Gambino (The Longest Text Message)
No matter what I do they refuse to come out right. Admittedly, I haven't tried too much to force them out, but I don't particularly enjoy forcing writing. If it's forced, it's not real, if it's not real, what's the point?
I believe in genuine writing. I don't want to plan, don't want to think, I want to feel the words. I want to have an idea flow out of me as is. Raw and ugly as sin. Full of cliche's and fragments and things that won't make sense until the third revision. I want gaps and plot holes that need to be filled in later because I'm too busy thinking of what happens next to concentrate on what happens now. I want spelling errors because my brain is moving far too fast for my fingers to keep up. I want to close my eyes and see a scene, to feel it and smell it while my fingers try desperately to keep up. To make sure the moment is captured before the image is lost forever. That's what I want when I sit down to write. That's what I want out of creative writing.
That's when writing makes me the happiest. When I just sit down and let the words flow out of me. Of course, most of these words are garbage with rare moments of words flowing perfectly together. But rarely is something great on the first try. That guy with the lightbulb fucked up about a million times before he figured it out. And science is much more concrete than figuring out how to string a sentence together, so I figure I have some leeway here. Hell, I can't make a lightbulb either, so I really should have a lot of room to work in.
Sometimes I wish I was better at structuring my writing before I actually started it. Then I wouldn't have to stress as much about everything fitting together properly when everything is said and done. As is, I just kind of start, and then figure out if everything adds up as I go through. It can be a terrible way to work, especially when a distinct structure is expected of you. But now that I'm not officially in classes of any sort, I suppose whatever the hell I want to do works just fine.
Like me writing whatever comes to mind. Like I'm writing now. Like how I'm using the word like 700 times to explain something that really didn't even need to be mentioned. Like how I keep typing exactly what is running through my mind at the moment. Of course I miss a few thoughts, but you don't really need to know that when I typed that last sentence I thought about ketchup simply because it was something different than what I was typing at that moment.
I love stream of consciousness. You get to say strange things.
Cabbage.
Quote of the Day:
"I'm always fucking childish, you knew that when you met me."
- Childish Gambino (The Longest Text Message)
23.10.11
Kids ruin everything [13/90]
I want to do nothing more than sleep. But of course my brain had to think about writing. Which I hadn't done. So now I'm here writing instead of in bed sleeping like I want to be.
I'm home now. After an hour of being trapped on a plane surrounded by screaming, crying, laughing, kicking, hitting kids (I didn't hit them, they hit me) I'm home. I have never in my life been on a plane with so many children. They surrounded me on all fronts. There was one directly behind me. A little boy. The lovely creature was on the plane for all of two minutes before he hit me in the head. I don't really know how it happened. He was so little, I don't know how he reached up over the seat to bop me on the head, but he did. From that moment, I knew I wasn't going to enjoy the flight very much. And that was after I found out I was in the middle seat.
It was an early flight so I was tired anyway, I just wanted to sleep. But sleep was never really an option. Not with all the child noises coming from every direction. Happy noises, sad noises, noise for the sake of noise noises. Any time of sound for any purpose a kid could have was made. Normally kids don't bother me much. But when there's one kicking the back of your seat on a semi-regular basis, and three others making random noises, it starts to grate on you. The kids parents never even told him to keep his feet down. My source of sanity came in the form of several batman comics preloaded onto my iPod. That and music. Loud music. Lots of it. I soon got into my happy place where screaming children barely existed.
I was honestly sad I was surrounded by families. Not because of the screaming kids, but because I am rarely inspired by families. It is easier for me to look at one person and come up with where their life has taken them, and what they might have done than it is for me too look at a family and imagine the same thing. I don't write about children. Children are hard. They're complex and simple. Smart and idiotic. They're confusing. And I don't think about them much. I don't write them because I don't know them. But a single person? A teen, a young adult, an adult? It's something I can relate too more. Something I can understand more. Children throw off my groove. Add a kid into any picture and my mind rarely knows what to do with it. They make writing difficult.
Children demand my attention through laughter and squeals of joy or pain. They rip me from my comfortable little world and throw me into one where my thought process slows and the stories freeze in my mind. It's awful.
I don't like feeling creatively drained. So I avoid writing about children. Or around them. Because they make everything so much more difficult. Even simple things like enjoying a short flight from Atlanta to Indianapolis.
I'm home now. After an hour of being trapped on a plane surrounded by screaming, crying, laughing, kicking, hitting kids (I didn't hit them, they hit me) I'm home. I have never in my life been on a plane with so many children. They surrounded me on all fronts. There was one directly behind me. A little boy. The lovely creature was on the plane for all of two minutes before he hit me in the head. I don't really know how it happened. He was so little, I don't know how he reached up over the seat to bop me on the head, but he did. From that moment, I knew I wasn't going to enjoy the flight very much. And that was after I found out I was in the middle seat.
It was an early flight so I was tired anyway, I just wanted to sleep. But sleep was never really an option. Not with all the child noises coming from every direction. Happy noises, sad noises, noise for the sake of noise noises. Any time of sound for any purpose a kid could have was made. Normally kids don't bother me much. But when there's one kicking the back of your seat on a semi-regular basis, and three others making random noises, it starts to grate on you. The kids parents never even told him to keep his feet down. My source of sanity came in the form of several batman comics preloaded onto my iPod. That and music. Loud music. Lots of it. I soon got into my happy place where screaming children barely existed.
I was honestly sad I was surrounded by families. Not because of the screaming kids, but because I am rarely inspired by families. It is easier for me to look at one person and come up with where their life has taken them, and what they might have done than it is for me too look at a family and imagine the same thing. I don't write about children. Children are hard. They're complex and simple. Smart and idiotic. They're confusing. And I don't think about them much. I don't write them because I don't know them. But a single person? A teen, a young adult, an adult? It's something I can relate too more. Something I can understand more. Children throw off my groove. Add a kid into any picture and my mind rarely knows what to do with it. They make writing difficult.
Children demand my attention through laughter and squeals of joy or pain. They rip me from my comfortable little world and throw me into one where my thought process slows and the stories freeze in my mind. It's awful.
I don't like feeling creatively drained. So I avoid writing about children. Or around them. Because they make everything so much more difficult. Even simple things like enjoying a short flight from Atlanta to Indianapolis.
21.10.11
Hospital visit [12/90]
I commend the me from a year or two ago that managed to update (mostly) every day. I must have been dedicated. Because back then I did things like school and socialize. I don't do anything now, and I still can't manage to update this thing every day. Actually, that's probably part of the problem. I don't do anything, so I don't have anything to say. Ha. Anyway, here we go.
Today I actually thought about writing. Actually writing something. You know, something that takes effort. Not just a small rant where I sometimes attempt to make the words sound nice. I mean, I actually thought about writing a story. It was a simple idea. Just a walk through the hospital. The sights, the sounds, the smells. The chaos. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing important would happen, at least not that the character would know about. She'd just walk through the hospital, tur around, and walk out. No real point, no real mission, just the human experience. A mundane thing, the kinds of things people do everyday without really thinking about.
It would have started simple enough. A girl walks into the hospital. The reader is never really sure why. Maybe she's visiting someone, maybe she's got a appointment, maybe she's just delivering something. But she walks in. The doors slide open for her. She takes a second to think about that- the doors slide open for her. A few years ago sliding doors would have seemed amazing she thinks. Like magic. She saw that in a TV show once- people who had never seen sliding doors. The hospital is loud and people are rushing about. They come and go from every direction. Some sliding through the corridors like they've done it a million times, others glancing nervously about- clearly lost. She goes about her way and pretends she doesn't notice the lost souls. Everything is the same shade of blue, or at least it feels that way. The carpet stretches on forever. She wonders if tile would be better, it is a hospital after all. But she supposes that the clinic area might not have as much threat of bodily fluids spilling everywhere.
It would go something like that. There'd be a girl, and she'd wonder through the hospital. No real reason or purpose. Just something nice. Something simple. Something that's not up it's own ass in morals and symbols. Something where blue is just blue and a door is just a door.
Today I actually thought about writing. Actually writing something. You know, something that takes effort. Not just a small rant where I sometimes attempt to make the words sound nice. I mean, I actually thought about writing a story. It was a simple idea. Just a walk through the hospital. The sights, the sounds, the smells. The chaos. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing important would happen, at least not that the character would know about. She'd just walk through the hospital, tur around, and walk out. No real point, no real mission, just the human experience. A mundane thing, the kinds of things people do everyday without really thinking about.
It would have started simple enough. A girl walks into the hospital. The reader is never really sure why. Maybe she's visiting someone, maybe she's got a appointment, maybe she's just delivering something. But she walks in. The doors slide open for her. She takes a second to think about that- the doors slide open for her. A few years ago sliding doors would have seemed amazing she thinks. Like magic. She saw that in a TV show once- people who had never seen sliding doors. The hospital is loud and people are rushing about. They come and go from every direction. Some sliding through the corridors like they've done it a million times, others glancing nervously about- clearly lost. She goes about her way and pretends she doesn't notice the lost souls. Everything is the same shade of blue, or at least it feels that way. The carpet stretches on forever. She wonders if tile would be better, it is a hospital after all. But she supposes that the clinic area might not have as much threat of bodily fluids spilling everywhere.
It would go something like that. There'd be a girl, and she'd wonder through the hospital. No real reason or purpose. Just something nice. Something simple. Something that's not up it's own ass in morals and symbols. Something where blue is just blue and a door is just a door.
18.10.11
The beginning of this really isn't very witty at all [11/90]
Rage against the machine used to be a band. Actually, it might still be a band. I don't really know. Anyway, it is now a (semi)clever way for me to say that I am angry with the institution. The institution in this case being High School education. More specifically, English.
I hate the way we teach English and writing. Hate it. There is very very little you could ever say to change my mind. You go through high school and then you get to college. And when you get to college the first thing most English professors say is forget whatever the hell your high school teachers said. Forget it. It's stupid. (Actually that's the way it goes in a lot of fields, or so I'm led to believe)
We teach our kids to memorize and regurgitate for the sake of tests and funding. We don't teach them how to think or discuss. You know, life skills. We tell them the green light at the end of that fucking dock in The Great Gatsby stands for how Gatsby is so close to his goals but can never reach them. How he's green with envy, or what the fuck ever. We tell them that the eyes on that damn billboard are representative of someone always seeing what goes on. We tell them that Tom loves red and gold because it symbolizes power. We tell them all this shit and we tell them to memorize it. We don't let them think. Or when we do we tell them they're wrong. They can't be right. Because there's clearly only one way to read this book. Because Nick Carroway is a god among men and so much better than all of them. Not the attention starved judgmental unreliable little shit I read him as.
We tell them to write about whatever they want, and then tell them they're wrong when they do it. We don't want them to think outside the box, not really. And that's so wrong. It's so bloody American too. What other culture is so centered on individuality and then telling you exactly how to be an individual? When they say write anything, they never really mean anything. They mean write something along the lines of exactly what I've taught you. Don't speak, don't think, don't do anything at all. God forbid you turn the assignment in on itself.
My little sister, a sophomore in high school, came home with an assignment to write anything. She asked me for help. We decided to write about what you could write about (because I'm such a whore for all things meta). Teacher hated it. Damn near failed her (she got a lovely D-). And for what? Because she didn't see the point. And because it was written in second person.
First of all, fuck the second person rule. Fuck it. Yes, yes, I understand why they say don't use second person. I can understand keeping it out of 'formal' writing. I understand not alienating an audience. I understand not putting words in the readers mouth. But second person is not a sin upon mankind. Using second paper does not make your writing the worst thing anyone could ever read.
And the point, I feel, was extremely clear. The entire thing said that "this is what you could use 500 words to write about." I don't think it gets much clearer than that.
It's frustrating. It's more frustrating than it should be. I really have some issues with the American education system. Most of which aren't very fleshed out. I should work on that.
16.10.11
Everything you know is a lie [10/90]
<p><p>I've been in Miami for the past few days. Without stable Internet connection. I'm actually writing this on my phone. </p><br>
<p>Anyway, all that great stuff they tell you about Miami is a lie. A bold face lie. A lying out your ass, making everything up lie. A dirty lying lie from the mouth of a liar. </p>
<p>Miami is full of old people. </p>
<p>Little old people. Big old people. White heads and dyed heads. All sorts of old people. So many old people that they're all starting to blur together. I can't tell one from another. </p>
<p>Old people who talk about old things. Old. People who don't know how to work a remote or turn on a computer. Old people who are innately attracted to casinos. </p>
<p>Which is where I find myself now. Lost in a sea of neon lights and white hair, baseball caps, and balding old men.</p>
<p>Now, I admit I'm biased. I don't gamble. I don't particularly like gambling, don't see the point. Since I was old enough to pick up a controller, I've been able to play electronic poker and gamble away fake money to my hearts content. And even then I was wary. I always cashed out before I could loose my meager winnings. The thought of loosing money like that, even fake money never sat well with me.
So now I'm trapped in a casino with a bunch of indistinguishable old people stating at flashing lights. Flashing lights and loosing money. No appeal. None.
Where are the beaches and babes, and boys with muscles. The jetskis and speed boats. The sun and sand. The random celebrity encounters.
All I've seen is old people, rain, and traffic.
Though I suppose I should have known better when I came to Miami with my grandparents.
13.10.11
Miami: 325 Miles [9/90]
I'm in a car on the way to Miami. It should be known that I love my grandparents. I love them to death. I love them so much I haven't gotten snippy.
We're going from Atlanta to Miami in a sedan. Not so bad, there's only 3 of us. So far I've spent most of the trip sleeping. Or pretending to.
But my waking moments? They're filled with patience-testing, teeth-grinding, headache-inducing experiences.
So far I've been forced out of the car to walk into a clearly closed wendys, lived through a McDonalds ordeal, and damn near been frozen.
Have I mentioned i've only been awake for about an hour?
Unrelated: palm trees are cool.
I'm currently listening to non-stop Frank Sinatra and similar artists. Maybe I'm uncivilized. Maybe I just hate this style music. Maybe it's because my parents used to put this on to make me go to sleep. Whatever the reason, it is slowly driving me insane.
State of the trip: Miami, 325 miles.
For the last two miles they argued about how to get back home. Sometimes I wonder if they argue just for fun. Miami: 323 miles. New thought, I wonder if they shoot swamp people around here.12.10.11
No write equals no sleep [8/90]
It's almost 2 a.m. and it's one of those nights where my body just won't let me sleep.
My mind is racing. Why, I don't know. My insides have turned against me once again. That horridly familiar pain, a sharp, stabbing, leaking pain that assaulting my insides. I've never really been sure how to categorize that pain. I don't even really know what part of my body it's assaulting. It just hurts. And it hurts as expected. Always when I least expect it, but it's never unexpected. It's the pain I associate with having a uterus. I don't really even know if that's what's hurting. Sometimes I wonder what it really is. Most times I just deal.
But my mind is the bigger problem. It won't turn off. It's time for bed and it won't turn off. It's like it wants to suffer under a steady onslaught of self-doubt and self-consciousness. I don't know why. We were having a good time just a few minutes ago. I was watching Torchwood. And now I'm lying in bed fighting my mind and my body. But the same question keeps popping up.
What do you do when you don't know what to do with yourself?
I don't really know if there's an answer to that. Maybe there is. But is it a universal answer? Is there some magic word that can set my mind at ease, or do I just have to live though this as well? Do I just go on and hope I figure it out? What are you supposed to do?
What do you do when you have no idea what to do?
There's so many things a person could do with their life. So many things I could do with my life. But I don't know what. I have no idea. I am out of college and I have no idea what to do. And the only question on anyone's mind is "What's next?"
They say I can do so much.
But is it so wrong to want nothing more than to sit down, sip a cup of coffee, and watch TV? To watch other people live their lives? To want nothing more than a quiet rainy monday?
That can't be so bad.
Quote of the Day:
"Confidence is 10% hard work and 90% delusion."
- Tina Fey
My mind is racing. Why, I don't know. My insides have turned against me once again. That horridly familiar pain, a sharp, stabbing, leaking pain that assaulting my insides. I've never really been sure how to categorize that pain. I don't even really know what part of my body it's assaulting. It just hurts. And it hurts as expected. Always when I least expect it, but it's never unexpected. It's the pain I associate with having a uterus. I don't really even know if that's what's hurting. Sometimes I wonder what it really is. Most times I just deal.
But my mind is the bigger problem. It won't turn off. It's time for bed and it won't turn off. It's like it wants to suffer under a steady onslaught of self-doubt and self-consciousness. I don't know why. We were having a good time just a few minutes ago. I was watching Torchwood. And now I'm lying in bed fighting my mind and my body. But the same question keeps popping up.
What do you do when you don't know what to do with yourself?
I don't really know if there's an answer to that. Maybe there is. But is it a universal answer? Is there some magic word that can set my mind at ease, or do I just have to live though this as well? Do I just go on and hope I figure it out? What are you supposed to do?
What do you do when you have no idea what to do?
There's so many things a person could do with their life. So many things I could do with my life. But I don't know what. I have no idea. I am out of college and I have no idea what to do. And the only question on anyone's mind is "What's next?"
They say I can do so much.
But is it so wrong to want nothing more than to sit down, sip a cup of coffee, and watch TV? To watch other people live their lives? To want nothing more than a quiet rainy monday?
That can't be so bad.
Quote of the Day:
"Confidence is 10% hard work and 90% delusion."
- Tina Fey
10.10.11
This post is useless [7/90]
Yeah. So, that 90 in 180 is probably going to be a much better representation of how long it takes me to finish 90 blog posts. This weekend I was with my big sister who magically happened to be in ATL at the same time as me. Anyway, on to today's post.
I watched Midnight in Paris today. I had absolutely no expectations going into the movie (I had never heard anything about it). After, I can probably say it's one of my favorite movies.
There's a writer who idolizes the Lost Generation and the 1920s in general. While wandering around Paris (his dream city) he gets transported back to the 20's and meets all of the greats. The writers and the painters and just about anyone you can imagine.
It was fantastic. I loved every moment. From the camera angles to the themes to, well, everything. It spoke to me on a personal level. Because I've done all that before. I've imagined everything and everyone being different. I've imagined talking to writers long gone, getting their input on my writing, what they would say, how they would act. All of it.
I've met people who think they're smart but they're really just full of it. Talked to people who everyone clearly loves, but who I just can't stand. Had moments where you wonder if you agree with anything your significant other says.
But it's his view on writing that stuck with me the most. The idolizing. The feeling that no one around you understands what it is you're trying to do. It was all so real for me. I can completely understand and relate to where the writer was coming from.
And what I realize more and more as I sit here with my grandma (who watched the movie with me) is how little other people can understand those feelings. Grandma things the guy was crazy. She doesn't understand where he was coming from. And by faulty association, doesn't understand what I feel about writing. (and by the way, Grandpa, who didn't watch the movie, thinks the guy was on drugs)
I think that to be any good at writing, you have to be a little crazy. A little bit confused. Passionate about something, anything. I think you have to be crazy because if you weren't you'd be doing anything else.
I watched Midnight in Paris today. I had absolutely no expectations going into the movie (I had never heard anything about it). After, I can probably say it's one of my favorite movies.
There's a writer who idolizes the Lost Generation and the 1920s in general. While wandering around Paris (his dream city) he gets transported back to the 20's and meets all of the greats. The writers and the painters and just about anyone you can imagine.
It was fantastic. I loved every moment. From the camera angles to the themes to, well, everything. It spoke to me on a personal level. Because I've done all that before. I've imagined everything and everyone being different. I've imagined talking to writers long gone, getting their input on my writing, what they would say, how they would act. All of it.
I've met people who think they're smart but they're really just full of it. Talked to people who everyone clearly loves, but who I just can't stand. Had moments where you wonder if you agree with anything your significant other says.
But it's his view on writing that stuck with me the most. The idolizing. The feeling that no one around you understands what it is you're trying to do. It was all so real for me. I can completely understand and relate to where the writer was coming from.
And what I realize more and more as I sit here with my grandma (who watched the movie with me) is how little other people can understand those feelings. Grandma things the guy was crazy. She doesn't understand where he was coming from. And by faulty association, doesn't understand what I feel about writing. (and by the way, Grandpa, who didn't watch the movie, thinks the guy was on drugs)
I think that to be any good at writing, you have to be a little crazy. A little bit confused. Passionate about something, anything. I think you have to be crazy because if you weren't you'd be doing anything else.
6.10.11
Defaulted again [6/90]
Maybe I should just start calling this the 90 in 180 for all the consistency I post with. I'd say I'm sorry for not posting yesterday, but I'm really not. I actually did some writing. It just didn't end up here. Probably won't ever end up here. Just how things go.
Today, as most days before it, I had no idea what I wanted to write about when I sat down to write. I thought about maybe working on my fiction. But then I started thinking about how my fiction has changed over the years. That's funny. I can say years now. Almost sounds like I've been writing for awhile.
But it has changed. When I write now it's more grounded in reality. When I first started writing for myself all those (four) years ago, nothing was real. Nothing was ever real. They were tall tales about zombies and fantasy and magic. And now? It's metafiction. Or the most ordinary situations you can imagine. I love it.
There's something to be said about finding the truth inside menial actions. Why is that woman really at the gym everyday. Why does that man smoke the way he does. What comforts him about the repetitive actions behind his favorite vice. I love the simplicity.
And metafiction. Whenever I can't come up with something I write about writing. I don't know why. I don't even know when that became my default. But writing about writing is a release. It's all feelings and emotion. It's heartfelt and about as raw as I am capable of. I write what I feel. What I think every time I sit down to a blank page. From the gut clenching fear of never being able to produce the words I see so clearly in my head to the empty frustration while I rack my brain for just the right word. The one with the proper definition. The one that says precisely what I want it to say and nothing more. Or everything more. That one word with the correct connotation and denotation. That one word that isn't unnecessarily long or too hard to understand. Sometimes it can even be about someone who feels none of that. About a writer who simply picks up a pen and out pours The Great Gatsby in time for afternoon tea.
I love metafiction. And if I were ever to write a book I should very much hope that it would be about writing. Because then no one could bloody well tell me I'm doing everything wrong.
Quote of the Day:
"It's the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time."
- Tallulah Bankhead
Today, as most days before it, I had no idea what I wanted to write about when I sat down to write. I thought about maybe working on my fiction. But then I started thinking about how my fiction has changed over the years. That's funny. I can say years now. Almost sounds like I've been writing for awhile.
But it has changed. When I write now it's more grounded in reality. When I first started writing for myself all those (four) years ago, nothing was real. Nothing was ever real. They were tall tales about zombies and fantasy and magic. And now? It's metafiction. Or the most ordinary situations you can imagine. I love it.
There's something to be said about finding the truth inside menial actions. Why is that woman really at the gym everyday. Why does that man smoke the way he does. What comforts him about the repetitive actions behind his favorite vice. I love the simplicity.
And metafiction. Whenever I can't come up with something I write about writing. I don't know why. I don't even know when that became my default. But writing about writing is a release. It's all feelings and emotion. It's heartfelt and about as raw as I am capable of. I write what I feel. What I think every time I sit down to a blank page. From the gut clenching fear of never being able to produce the words I see so clearly in my head to the empty frustration while I rack my brain for just the right word. The one with the proper definition. The one that says precisely what I want it to say and nothing more. Or everything more. That one word with the correct connotation and denotation. That one word that isn't unnecessarily long or too hard to understand. Sometimes it can even be about someone who feels none of that. About a writer who simply picks up a pen and out pours The Great Gatsby in time for afternoon tea.
I love metafiction. And if I were ever to write a book I should very much hope that it would be about writing. Because then no one could bloody well tell me I'm doing everything wrong.
Quote of the Day:
"It's the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time."
- Tallulah Bankhead
5.10.11
She made me think [5/90]
Earlier today (or maybe it was yesterday) I started a post about how I admire people who want to change the world. I've scrapped it twice. Because I can't figure out what the hell I'm trying to say. And not in a way where I can just type and have something semi-coherent vomited out onto the page. I guess it's just something I need to think about more. Anyway, here goes.
Today my grandma took me to dinner at one of her friends' house. Her husband died just a few weeks ago. She's not very old- can't be too much older than my own parents. Everything about her was muted. Her voice, her actions, everything. I can't comprehend a loss like that. Today was the first day she's left the house since the funeral I think. Her friend said they went to Walmart. Tomorrow they're supposed to run a couple more errands. The friend says they'll take it one day at a time. I hope she feels better soon. I met her husband once. Seemed like a nice man. I hope she feels better soon.
That woman, she made me think. Not about death or loss or coping, but about me. She asked a lot of questions. Questions about where I'd gone to school, what I'd participated in, who my favorite author was, my favorite professor. What I wanted to do. Some were questions everyone asks. Others, were questions I'd never really been asked before. I had to think.
Who is my favorite author? I'm not sure if I have one. I said David Foster Wallace. He's not really my favorite. If I'm completely honest, I've never even finished one of his books. I've tried, but the man makes me think too damn hard. His writing is exhausting. I get so caught up in his words. In the flow. Then I forget what I'm reading and just drop it. He's not my favorite author. Maybe my favorite writer. In my head there's a difference.
But a favorite author? I can't say I have one. I don't read any one author regularly enough to call them my favorite. My reading is as fragmented as everything else I do. I pick up a book, read some, drop it, and move on to the next with no clear patterns. Favorite author? How can you pick one? They all do such different things. I have a love/hate relationship with Flannary O'Connor. I really like the core DragonLance novels by Tracy Hickman and Margaret Weiss. I've reread Jurrassic Park by Michael Crichton more times than most- but I've never read his other stuff. The Great Gatsby is still one of my favorite novels. I spent the last few days reading nothing but the best and worst of fanfiction I can find. But a favorite author? I don't know if I could pick one.
She asked me when Ball State's homecoming was. I had no idea. Facebook tells me it's this weekend. I never know when homecoming is. I never knew when homecoming was when I went there. School spirit has never been my thing. She seemed surprised that I didn't know anything about it. Or what events drew back alumni. I have no idea. I never thought about it. Never been my concern. I don't have any real motivation to see my peers again anyway. Hardly knew them when we were in the same classes everyday. Funny. Sounds just like how high school ended. Some things never change.
Favorite professor. I actually had an answer for that one. Barb. Can't for the life of me remember Barb's last name. She seemed shocked we called her Barb. Said something about BSU being very informal. I don't know what else we would have called her.
Within minutes of asking me what I'm doing now that I've graduated most people figure out I have no idea. And I'm not being very proactive about fixing that. I'm ok with that. Most others don't really understand that. I should be out doing things. Working. Something. But I'm not. And I'm ok with that. Because it's not about me. It's never been about me.
Everything I do is about them. What they want. What's best for them. What helps them the most. I can't run off and think only about myself. That's not who I am. That's never been who I am. They need me. To keep them from doing something stupid. To make them laugh. To help with homework. To show them that there's always another way. To have someone to talk to. To vent. To tell stupid stories. To let them know everything will be ok. To be there. And as long as they need me, I will always be there. They are my number one priority. I love them more than anything or anyone. Even when I hate them.
Quote of the Day:
"Indecision may or may not be my problem."
- Jimmy Buffett
Today my grandma took me to dinner at one of her friends' house. Her husband died just a few weeks ago. She's not very old- can't be too much older than my own parents. Everything about her was muted. Her voice, her actions, everything. I can't comprehend a loss like that. Today was the first day she's left the house since the funeral I think. Her friend said they went to Walmart. Tomorrow they're supposed to run a couple more errands. The friend says they'll take it one day at a time. I hope she feels better soon. I met her husband once. Seemed like a nice man. I hope she feels better soon.
That woman, she made me think. Not about death or loss or coping, but about me. She asked a lot of questions. Questions about where I'd gone to school, what I'd participated in, who my favorite author was, my favorite professor. What I wanted to do. Some were questions everyone asks. Others, were questions I'd never really been asked before. I had to think.
Who is my favorite author? I'm not sure if I have one. I said David Foster Wallace. He's not really my favorite. If I'm completely honest, I've never even finished one of his books. I've tried, but the man makes me think too damn hard. His writing is exhausting. I get so caught up in his words. In the flow. Then I forget what I'm reading and just drop it. He's not my favorite author. Maybe my favorite writer. In my head there's a difference.
But a favorite author? I can't say I have one. I don't read any one author regularly enough to call them my favorite. My reading is as fragmented as everything else I do. I pick up a book, read some, drop it, and move on to the next with no clear patterns. Favorite author? How can you pick one? They all do such different things. I have a love/hate relationship with Flannary O'Connor. I really like the core DragonLance novels by Tracy Hickman and Margaret Weiss. I've reread Jurrassic Park by Michael Crichton more times than most- but I've never read his other stuff. The Great Gatsby is still one of my favorite novels. I spent the last few days reading nothing but the best and worst of fanfiction I can find. But a favorite author? I don't know if I could pick one.
She asked me when Ball State's homecoming was. I had no idea. Facebook tells me it's this weekend. I never know when homecoming is. I never knew when homecoming was when I went there. School spirit has never been my thing. She seemed surprised that I didn't know anything about it. Or what events drew back alumni. I have no idea. I never thought about it. Never been my concern. I don't have any real motivation to see my peers again anyway. Hardly knew them when we were in the same classes everyday. Funny. Sounds just like how high school ended. Some things never change.
Favorite professor. I actually had an answer for that one. Barb. Can't for the life of me remember Barb's last name. She seemed shocked we called her Barb. Said something about BSU being very informal. I don't know what else we would have called her.
Within minutes of asking me what I'm doing now that I've graduated most people figure out I have no idea. And I'm not being very proactive about fixing that. I'm ok with that. Most others don't really understand that. I should be out doing things. Working. Something. But I'm not. And I'm ok with that. Because it's not about me. It's never been about me.
Everything I do is about them. What they want. What's best for them. What helps them the most. I can't run off and think only about myself. That's not who I am. That's never been who I am. They need me. To keep them from doing something stupid. To make them laugh. To help with homework. To show them that there's always another way. To have someone to talk to. To vent. To tell stupid stories. To let them know everything will be ok. To be there. And as long as they need me, I will always be there. They are my number one priority. I love them more than anything or anyone. Even when I hate them.
Quote of the Day:
"Indecision may or may not be my problem."
- Jimmy Buffett
3.10.11
Possibly coherent thoughts [4/90]
Ok. Wow. I am fantastically bad at remembering to update. And here I thought I might have a chance of actually doing this right. Anyway, I don't really have an excuse for yesterday. I just forgot. So here's a post to appease my acute writers guilt.
Other people. How are you supposed to interact with them? Should they be the focus of your existence, or should you concentrate on yourself instead? Is the number of people around you supposed to affect how social you are? Those are just a few questions that have been on my mind since yesterday. Since graduation I haven't spent much time in the company of people who are not immediately related to me. And I've really only spent time with them because I live with them. Without that shared living space, I would probably be something closely resembling a hermit. And as I've said, I'm currently in Atlanta with my extended family. An extended family who hasn't had years of dealing with my distinctly hermit-like ways.
And it's brought some things to my attention. I don't know what to say to people one on one. I have no idea. None. Especially if I don't have a shared interest or experience to draw on. One on one you're stuck asking those casual filler questions like how's the weather, or what did you do today. I hate those questions. Most days people do the same things they always do. Oh, you went to class? That's nice. Oh, work huh? That's nice. Unless something spectacularly different from the norm happened, it's boring for both of us. I especially hate it when people ask me that question. You want to know what I did today? Nothing. Same as always. And then they say well you had to have done something. And I'm just like well if you must know, I sat around. I might have eaten some toast. After which I got on the internet. And maybe I played a game or watched TV. Yeah. Exciting life I lead. Aren't you so glad you ask me this damn question every day.
If you have that common interest or experience you at least have something to go off of though. Maybe they also like TV. You can just ask what they thought of the latest episode. Or who their favorite character is. Bam. Conversation. And you get a free pass to judging them when they are so clearly wrong in their opinions. Experiences pretty much go the same way. Oh, I see you like going to the farmers market. I too like going to the farmer's market. We have much to discuss.
One on one people have this odd tendency of asking yes or no questions and expecting you to answer with more than that. "You're quiet today." Yes. Yes, I am. Now that we've established that I'll just go right on being quiet. Thank you for noticing.
In a group setting I'm much better. Because then someone else is always talking, and all you have to do is contribute once in a while. Through out some laughter. Perhaps a question or anecdote. And when you have no idea what to say, there's always someone to cover for you. Groups are great. I highly recommend that everyone who doesn't like to talk, or has nothing to say, hang out in large groups. At first it seems counterintuitive, but really, you do way less talking when in a group setting than you do one on one. And people think you're social when you do. All you have to do is appear to be paying attention and in all actuality you're just thinking about how you'd really like to get back to your book, game, or whatever it is you do when you're actively avoiding talking to people. And hell, maybe you'll even get actively sucked into the conversation you're having with the people around you, and you'll actually become more social. Yay.
Quote of the Day:
"Happiness is a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city."
- George Burns
Other people. How are you supposed to interact with them? Should they be the focus of your existence, or should you concentrate on yourself instead? Is the number of people around you supposed to affect how social you are? Those are just a few questions that have been on my mind since yesterday. Since graduation I haven't spent much time in the company of people who are not immediately related to me. And I've really only spent time with them because I live with them. Without that shared living space, I would probably be something closely resembling a hermit. And as I've said, I'm currently in Atlanta with my extended family. An extended family who hasn't had years of dealing with my distinctly hermit-like ways.
And it's brought some things to my attention. I don't know what to say to people one on one. I have no idea. None. Especially if I don't have a shared interest or experience to draw on. One on one you're stuck asking those casual filler questions like how's the weather, or what did you do today. I hate those questions. Most days people do the same things they always do. Oh, you went to class? That's nice. Oh, work huh? That's nice. Unless something spectacularly different from the norm happened, it's boring for both of us. I especially hate it when people ask me that question. You want to know what I did today? Nothing. Same as always. And then they say well you had to have done something. And I'm just like well if you must know, I sat around. I might have eaten some toast. After which I got on the internet. And maybe I played a game or watched TV. Yeah. Exciting life I lead. Aren't you so glad you ask me this damn question every day.
If you have that common interest or experience you at least have something to go off of though. Maybe they also like TV. You can just ask what they thought of the latest episode. Or who their favorite character is. Bam. Conversation. And you get a free pass to judging them when they are so clearly wrong in their opinions. Experiences pretty much go the same way. Oh, I see you like going to the farmers market. I too like going to the farmer's market. We have much to discuss.
One on one people have this odd tendency of asking yes or no questions and expecting you to answer with more than that. "You're quiet today." Yes. Yes, I am. Now that we've established that I'll just go right on being quiet. Thank you for noticing.
In a group setting I'm much better. Because then someone else is always talking, and all you have to do is contribute once in a while. Through out some laughter. Perhaps a question or anecdote. And when you have no idea what to say, there's always someone to cover for you. Groups are great. I highly recommend that everyone who doesn't like to talk, or has nothing to say, hang out in large groups. At first it seems counterintuitive, but really, you do way less talking when in a group setting than you do one on one. And people think you're social when you do. All you have to do is appear to be paying attention and in all actuality you're just thinking about how you'd really like to get back to your book, game, or whatever it is you do when you're actively avoiding talking to people. And hell, maybe you'll even get actively sucked into the conversation you're having with the people around you, and you'll actually become more social. Yay.
Quote of the Day:
"Happiness is a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city."
- George Burns
1.10.11
It's funny because I was running in a Flash shirt and it clearly did not make me any faster [3/90]
Ha. Man. It only took me two days to fall off the wagon. I really do need someone to watch my every move or I'll just vanish again. BUT, I'm going to pretend I have an adequate excuse (which I really don't). Yesterday was somewhat busy (from about 3pm to 11pm which leaves a lot of room for me being horrendously lazy). This is a formal apology to myself for not writing like I should have. It's only hurting me.
Now that that's out of the way, TRAVEL. Today's topic.
It has come to my attention that I am almost incapable of arriving on time for a flight.
Today I flew from Indy to Atlanta. Fun times. And it really all starts at the airport. Well, I could start before then, but it's really boring. So, airport. We actually got to the airport with plenty of time for checkin and all that other stuff, much sooner than normal. Lovely chat with the check-in lady. Who very kindly game my mom a day pass to the airport so she could walk me too the gate. We are both 90% certain the woman thought I was much younger than I actually am, or this probably would not have happened. I checked my boarding pass, and we headed off towards the security line for concourse A. There was approximately no wait and I spent all of 10 seconds in the star trek machine before going to put my shoes on. Then a nice old TSA agent asked me if I watched Big Bang Theory. It took me a second to get the reference, but eventually it clicked. I'm wearing a flash T-shirt today. Laughter ensued and we headed to gate 15 where my plane should have been.
Gate A15 was a flight to Detroit.
Oops.
I had read the pass wrong and looked at my seat assignment instead. My plane was at B21. The other side of the airport. Mom and I had a good laugh at how stupid I was, and started heading to the other side of the airport. We had made it less than halfway there when the loudspeaker sounded.
".......Airtran flight 407 to Atlanta is on it's final boarding call... please make your way to the gate."
During those initial syllables, it was like a sitcom. That moment where the main characters have finally realized what they've done wrong, that the bomb could explode at any second, that they've left Macaulay Caulkin Home Alone...again. That slow motion moment right before everything goes to shit- where everyone looks at each other, eyes widening, pupils dialating, and the shock fully registers on their face. We had that.
And then there was the running.
And by running, I mean trotting.
And that didn't last very long.
Mom was falling behind. She is not, by any definition, an athlete. I glanced back and made the call.
"Do you want to just say goodbye here?"
"Yeah, go ahead."
There was time for a quick hug, kiss, and goodbye, before I was jogging through the terminal. It is at this point where I decided that running through an airport must be fairly common, TSA and Security are much nicer than the news claims, and/or I really don't look like a potential security threat.
Because I jogged/trotted/power-speed-walked through the backside of security, across the central area, and through the entirety of Concourse B.
And as per my usual arrival time, I was the last one on the plane. And because I was so late they had to change my seat. I got bumped up to the first seat on the plane. You know, the one without anyone sitting in front of you, the one with the extra leg space? That one. Yeah. And as soon as I got on the plane they offered me water. Which was nice because I am an out of shape lazy bum who can't even run through an airport without almost dying. And, because you're so close to the front of the plane the flight attendant cart can't effectively reach you (or something), so you end up with an almost personal flight attendant who every few minutes comes by and asks if you need anything. I ended up with milano cookies and an entire bottle of fancy icelandic water (which may be a lie- it could be from the tap and I'd never know), instead of the standard one cup and maybe a pack of pretzels, for my tardiness. Awesome.
But wait, there's more.
I also ended up getting off the plane first, and my bag dropped almost immediately at baggage claim. I felt like airport god was really happy with me today.
Quote of the Day:
"Millions long for immortality who don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon."
- Susan Ertz
Now that that's out of the way, TRAVEL. Today's topic.
It has come to my attention that I am almost incapable of arriving on time for a flight.
Today I flew from Indy to Atlanta. Fun times. And it really all starts at the airport. Well, I could start before then, but it's really boring. So, airport. We actually got to the airport with plenty of time for checkin and all that other stuff, much sooner than normal. Lovely chat with the check-in lady. Who very kindly game my mom a day pass to the airport so she could walk me too the gate. We are both 90% certain the woman thought I was much younger than I actually am, or this probably would not have happened. I checked my boarding pass, and we headed off towards the security line for concourse A. There was approximately no wait and I spent all of 10 seconds in the star trek machine before going to put my shoes on. Then a nice old TSA agent asked me if I watched Big Bang Theory. It took me a second to get the reference, but eventually it clicked. I'm wearing a flash T-shirt today. Laughter ensued and we headed to gate 15 where my plane should have been.
Gate A15 was a flight to Detroit.
Oops.
I had read the pass wrong and looked at my seat assignment instead. My plane was at B21. The other side of the airport. Mom and I had a good laugh at how stupid I was, and started heading to the other side of the airport. We had made it less than halfway there when the loudspeaker sounded.
".......Airtran flight 407 to Atlanta is on it's final boarding call... please make your way to the gate."
During those initial syllables, it was like a sitcom. That moment where the main characters have finally realized what they've done wrong, that the bomb could explode at any second, that they've left Macaulay Caulkin Home Alone...again. That slow motion moment right before everything goes to shit- where everyone looks at each other, eyes widening, pupils dialating, and the shock fully registers on their face. We had that.
And then there was the running.
And by running, I mean trotting.
And that didn't last very long.
Mom was falling behind. She is not, by any definition, an athlete. I glanced back and made the call.
"Do you want to just say goodbye here?"
"Yeah, go ahead."
There was time for a quick hug, kiss, and goodbye, before I was jogging through the terminal. It is at this point where I decided that running through an airport must be fairly common, TSA and Security are much nicer than the news claims, and/or I really don't look like a potential security threat.
Because I jogged/trotted/power-speed-walked through the backside of security, across the central area, and through the entirety of Concourse B.
And as per my usual arrival time, I was the last one on the plane. And because I was so late they had to change my seat. I got bumped up to the first seat on the plane. You know, the one without anyone sitting in front of you, the one with the extra leg space? That one. Yeah. And as soon as I got on the plane they offered me water. Which was nice because I am an out of shape lazy bum who can't even run through an airport without almost dying. And, because you're so close to the front of the plane the flight attendant cart can't effectively reach you (or something), so you end up with an almost personal flight attendant who every few minutes comes by and asks if you need anything. I ended up with milano cookies and an entire bottle of fancy icelandic water (which may be a lie- it could be from the tap and I'd never know), instead of the standard one cup and maybe a pack of pretzels, for my tardiness. Awesome.
But wait, there's more.
I also ended up getting off the plane first, and my bag dropped almost immediately at baggage claim. I felt like airport god was really happy with me today.
Quote of the Day:
"Millions long for immortality who don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon."
- Susan Ertz
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